


An Academic Detour

by Kerioth



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Oxford Time Travel Universe - Connie Willis
Genre: Gen, Minor Peggy Carter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:17:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerioth/pseuds/Kerioth
Summary: Two 21st Century scholars researching the origins of SHIELD cross paths in a way that will change their projects dramatically.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/gifts).



_Transcript of report from A. Walters regarding misuse of university property._

A warning, up front – this is going to be a bit mixed up and incomplete. In my defense, I was time lagged for most of it. It occurs to me just now that time lag as a state of mind accounts for a lot of what I've found frustrating about other historians' accounts of their observations.

I was working as a switchboard operator at the phone company in 1946, in New York City – a job that had been surprisingly difficult to get, even with the best references Research could supply, a collection of implanted skills, and an American L-and-A (New England, but vague enough to resist attempts at identifying it to a specific area, and which I explained by saying that I'd moved a lot). My interview with a supervisor named Rose Roberts had gone well, I thought, but it took a nerve-wracking three days for them to call me back.

During those three days, I had a lot of spare time to contemplate what I was doing in 1946 – or at least what I was attempting to do. Mr. Dunworthy's influence on Balliol had led to the entire 1940s becoming a metaphorical minefield of historians by the time I was up for my first drop. As a result, any scholar of my year applying for a mid-20th Century project needed a highly specialized prospectus. I was quite pleased with mine, tentatively titled _The Rise of SHIELD_ , but I still spent most of a week biting my nails while the committee debated whether my topic was too close to one submitted by a student at Cambridge, about the scientific advancements of the SSR and its successors.

Once my paper was approved, my drop scheduled, and my job at the phone company confirmed, I confidently expected the rest of my project to be a relative breeze. In my first two weeks, I made what felt like an endless series of mistakes. Between the time lag from my first trip back to Oxford to report, the double duty of operating a switchboard and taking shorthand notes about my coworkers and the culture they lived in, and my first glimpse of the true-to-life Agent Peggy Carter on her way in to the SSR offices, it was nearly impossible to focus on what I was doing at any one moment.

Speaking of which, I think I forgot to explain properly that the specific phone company I was working for in 1946 was also a front for the Strategic Scientific Reserve – the precursor to the mostly secret defense agency known as SHIELD. It was still a working phone exchange, hence my need to operate a switchboard while taking notes, but behind one of the banks of machines was an office of – mostly suited men, actually, but also Peggy Carter, the main subject of my paper. Agent Carter's role in history was significant enough that I wasn't supposed to interact with her directly, so I had to be content with recording every scrap of conversation and observation I could.

After eight weeks of note-taking, I had enough material that I needed to return to Oxford for another notebook, but not enough _significant_ material to start a paper. Agent Carter was very good about not discussing SSR business outside the office. After I returned with my fresh notebook, I headed to the automat by my apartment to console myself with a cup of coffee and a slice of pecan pie. We have pecan pie here, of course, but there's something especially comforting about 20th Century pie. I think it's probably the preservatives.

I was sitting in a booth, sipping my coffee in between bites of pie when a shadow crossed my table and a striking young woman with long strawberry blond hair pinned back from her face sat down across from me. She propped her chin on one long-fingered hand, studying my face intently.

“Do I... know you?” I asked, trying to remember if I'd seen her before and if so, where.

“You're about to,” she replied. “Enid Castlerock. Cambridge.”

Her accent was American, but difficult to place. The mention of Cambridge, combined with the accent, triggered a memory – my advisor, talking about the review of my prospectus. The other scholar looking into the origins of SHIELD was... I couldn't quite remember the name.

“Abbie Walters,” I said, to fill the gap in the conversation. I accepted her offer of a handshake across the table. “What are you studying? Or – teaching?”

“Studying; History. But I think you could guess that, am I right?”

“Well – ˮ I hesitated, glancing around the automat to be sure no one was listening in.

“I wouldn't interrupt you ordinarily, but I need to ask a favor. I need to borrow your drop.” She must have decided either that we weren't being overheard, or that “drop” was an innocuous enough term that it was safe to use in front of the contemps.

“Why can't you use your drop?”

“It isn't set up for the right interval. I just need a little more information, and then I can come right back. Besides, the Bodleian is almost more likely to have what I need than the libraries at Cambridge.”

This seemed like an adequate explanation (at least in my current state of mind), and it was nice to have someone to talk to about what I was learning (even if it didn't amount to much). We made our way to my drop site without me being aware of having agreed to show her where it was, but I assumed that was the time lag. Since we arrived in time to catch the drop opening, we made our way back to the lab in Oxford, and I honestly didn't think anything of it until Lewis said, “Who's this, Abbie?”

“Enid Castlerock, visiting from Cambridge,” she put in smoothly. “Miss Walters was kind enough to offer me the use of her drop as a sort of interlibrary loan. We won't be long.”

She swept me out of the lab and down the high street to the Bod before Lewis could ask any more questions. Or before I could object that I hadn't really offered her the use of my drop as much as she had taken it.

I – don't really remember our visit to the library, but Enid emerged triumphant and eager to return to the lab. When we got back, Lewis had stepped out. Enid approached the console and began pulling up coordinates.

“You... you are pulling up the coordinates for my drop, right? How do you know how to do that?”

“I started in Time Travel before transferring to History when I realized that was the only way I'd actually be allowed to go to the past instead of just setting up trips for others.”

She didn't look up from her typing, and I lost track of time until she took my hand and pulled me over to the net.

“Stay there,” she said, holding my gaze for a couple of breaths before sprinting back to the console, emphatically pressing a key, and sprinting back. The net shimmered and opened – onto darkness.

Rule 1 of time travel is “Ascertain your temporal-spacial location.” Enid had taken my hand again and continued leading me somewhere while my sluggish thoughts worked their way through what they were supposed to do.

By the time I definitely determined we were neither at my drop site nor in 1946, we were standing in front of a squat, run-down WWII-era bunker. Enid did something to the lock, opened the door, and ushered me inside.

“We have to go back,” I said.

“Later,” she said soothingly, although her face showed a flash of irritation. “You can stay out here if you want, but it will take Oxford at least an hour to set up a return or a retrieval team, so you may as well come.” She turned to enter the open door without giving me time to evaluate her invitation. I followed before she made it to the end of the hall.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, catching up to her in front of a wall with a bookcase and a pair of portraits, one of Peggy Carter and one of Howard Stark.

“Paying a visit to Dr. Arnim Zola. I need to get an interview.”

Enid was studying the wall with the same intensity she'd used on my face when we first met, which gave me some time to recall who Dr. Zola was.

My memory spilled over into a verbal judgement: “That is a terrible idea.”

“You sound just like my advisors,” Enid said, turning back to face me. “Think of what he could contribute to science!”

“I am thinking about it, but I'm not sure you are. We're talking about a man who spent 40 years planning the biggest betrayal in SHIELD's history.”

“It's not like I'm planning to bring him back with us.”

“I still don't like the idea –” I hesitated as she narrowed her eyes, suddenly sure that she was willing to do just about anything for the sake of this interview (a logical conclusion, really, given that she had already hijacked me, my drop, the Oxford lab, and whatever she'd gotten from the Bodleian). “– but if you insist, then please at least don't mention time travel.”

Short of actually unleashing Zola on 2063, the worst thing I could think of (and I _really_ didn't want to think about it) was giving him ideas about time travel.

“Of course,” Enid replied, with just a shade of condescension in her voice as she turned back to the wall and found the secret door she'd been looking for. I let her lead the way, following a few steps behind.

The room we entered opened gradually away from the door. Row after row of mid-20th Century databanks filled the space, dimly lit by fluorescent bulbs. Some of the machines were ticking quietly, running background processes or calculations. Three huge monitors capped a desk covered in switches and keyboards directly in front of us. I was daunted by the space, and even Enid's confidence had been damped down to a cautious approach.

When she entered a command on the keyboard in the middle of the desk, more disks began to spin and a camera on the center monitor twitched like a stirring sleeper. A face materialized gradually on the monitor, its edges either poorly defined or constantly shifting, the eyes a pair of blank, dark circles. Enid spoke first.

“Dr. Zola – I'm an... admirer of your work, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions to help with some work of my own.”

The voice that responded echoed in the space, reminding me somewhat of the Wizard of Oz. Zola had apparently retained his Swiss German accent, along with the shape of his face. “That is flattering. Unfortunately, I am busy at the moment, so I must ask you to leave.” The screen blanked out before Enid had time to protest.

I started thinking of something reassuring to say, but since it would probably have come out as “Disillusionment comes to us all,” I'm grateful the retrieval team showed up just then.

You know the rest of the story from them – they collected us, walked us out of the bunker, and brought us back through the net for a debriefing.

I suppose I can understand some of Enid's reasons, but I certainly don't approve of her methods. I just hope... is it too soon to ask when I can get back to my project?


End file.
